


The one in which Lambert takes on an odd contract that he soon regrets

by do_androids_dream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Mystery, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Suspense, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream/pseuds/do_androids_dream
Summary: After his last adventure Lambert just wants to have some peace and quiet. But on his way home he stumbles right into the next contract: A remote little village has a monster problem ...
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Hmm, now, see the black cloud up ahead — that’s me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ratatosk_the_old_squirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratatosk_the_old_squirrel/gifts).



> The story starts directly from the events in "Ride into obsession", can be read independently, but contains minor spoilers for "Ride into obsession".
> 
> Monsters, potions and battle details are related to the game, with some literary freedom.
> 
> Please forgive any grammar problems, I am not a native speaker. 
> 
> Chapter titles are taken from Metallica songs: Prince Charming / Merciful Fate / Master of Puppets / The Unforgiven II / Through the never / Harvester of Sorrow / Turn the Page.

— 1 —

**Hmm, now, see the black cloud up ahead — that’s me**

  
The horse was not only beautiful — a trait to which the witcher attached little importance, at least with horses — it was above all strong, healthy and fast. A little nervous perhaps, the black horse was still quite young and possibly also a little spoiled: a feast for the eyes in the imperial stable, but spurned by the Emperor himself, who really didn't need any more horses when he received this one as a gift. So up to now, the stable master had mainly looked after the horse, which had included plenty of stroking and sugar cubes in addition to the necessary exercise. It was not a horse for soldiers, that would have been a waste. But Lambert was convinced that the creature could be turned into a horse worthy of a witcher. It had been the only thing he had accepted as a reward after he had helped to save the lives of the Emperor and Geralt — in his case, literally.

After he could be sure that his wolf brother was out of the woods, Lambert had decided to set off again. The fact that he had enough of watching the fucking Emperor of Nilfgaard scrabbling around Geralt as if he had just risen from the dead certainly played a role in this. Although that was kind of true. But neither could he get used to the sight of the two of them as an actual couple nor to this shameless kissing in public (although, to be honest, the public at that time consisted only of him, Ciri and Merigold, who seemed to find that not very pleasant either). That Geralt had bedded the guy was somehow understandable — the Emperor was not completely unattractive. But Geralt's silly grin and this babbling about love confessions had finished him off. First one sorceress after another, now an Emperor as well — and _Lambert_ had always been accused of thinking with his dick? Ciri, obviously still the brat she used to be, had laughed at him because he seemed constantly upset (they were her damn fathers — another fact he could hardly get into his head). 

Now that he had obviously finished his business there, Lambert had left — equipped with a new horse and the realization that he had had enough of adventures involving vampires and sorceresses for the time being. He had to admit that there was at least one sorceress with whom he could imagine a certain kind of adventure. Keira described love as something that only rich people had time for. It was a strange description, but at least there was a silent agreement between them that their kind of relationship was certainly not based on that kind of feeling.

It was a long way back, but Lambert preferred the horse to the damn portals, of which there had been enough in recent days. He had been on the road for almost five days now, as he passed through a village and decided it was time for a proper drink and something more nutritious than dried strips of meat. But no sooner had he dismounted and led the still nameless horse on a rein through the dusty streets, than a guy approached him. Lambert stiffened. By the looks of the man, he was probably trouble. The clothes and the bow, but also the whole attitude indicated a hunter. They occasionally tended to expand their hunting prey when they felt that the village was in danger. And with a man armed with two swords, you could never be sure — there were areas where one had never heard of a witcher, and then again others where he simply was not welcome. And then there were the ones where a witcher was desperately needed. Turns out that was exactly what was going on.

The hunter approached him and said, not unkindly, "Are you a witcher, sir?"  
Lambert sighed, probably he could forget about his dinner.  
"What is the matter?" he asked. _Anything but a vampire_ , he thought.  
"My name is Anders," said the man. "I am the hunter of Friedshain, as you have probably guessed."  
_Really_? Lambert thought.  
"We have been discussing for days whether we should make a public display, but the Elder said that no witchers have passed by here in twenty years," continued the man who had introduced himself as Anders.  
"Get to the point."

In the meantime, Lambert had stopped the horse and looked impatiently at the hunter. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement — people became curious, although he could not see anyone directly. Apparently, very few travelers passed through the village.  
The hunter took a deep breath.  
"There is a monster in the woods, sir. One of our own fell victim to it. I saw the body, and let me tell you, I have never seen anything like it, and I never want to see it again."  
"A little more specific?" Lambert growled. "What did the body look like?“

The hunter looked to the ground. Just a minute ago, he might have resembled one of those tough guys that seemed to exist in every other village: A few muscles, the odd scar to show off, reasonably adept with some kind of weapon and therefore quickly willing to be a bigmouth towards strangers. But when he kept talking, he didn't seem like someone who was looking for a fight. He looked like someone who had seen something no normal person should see. 

"Horrible, just horrible," Anders replied. "Torn apart from top to bottom."  
_That is not what I meant by specific_ , Lambert thought. But it was clear that he would get no more out of the hunter or any other villager.   
"How long ago was that?" he asked.  
„It happened at the last full moon. Is it a werewolf, sir? We have heard of such creatures..."  
"Do you have a tavern here?" Lambert interrupted him.  
The hunter stopped short and scratched his head.   
"Well, indeed, though strangers seldom stray here... Are you looking for a place to sleep, sir?"  
"I'm looking for a place to drink," Lambert replied gruffly and let Anders lead him to the village tavern.

It was basically just a room, not much more than a shed that had been timbered against one of the village houses. Inside it smelled of brandy distilled from hay with some dubious ingredients, and of watery beer. Behind a makeshift counter stood a hulking guy who was probably also responsible for slaughtering the animals the hunter brought along. At one of the two long tables sat a single man — Lambert had seen this species often enough, too, as there were drunkards in every village. 

When they entered, the innkeeper raised his eyebrows and began to wipe his counter with a greasy rag. If this was to inspire confidence in travellers, Lambert found it useless.  
„That’s a witcher," Anders said to the tavern owner. „He’ll help us with our monster problem. Give him the good stuff."  
The man behind the counter just grunted and reached under the makeshift-bar to pull out a large, dusty bottle without a label. 

"A witcher, eh?" he growled as he poured a finger's width of liquid into a suspiciously dark glass. Lambert looked at it distrustfully, but then he thought that it didn't matter how often they washed their glasses here — he'd be more likely to be poisoned by their homemade alcohol than by their poor hygiene measures.

He took the glass, nodded towards the innkeeper and then sat down astride one of the benches in front of the two tables.   
"I have not yet agreed," he then addressed the hunter.  
"Sir?"   
"I have not yet accepted the contract," he repeated, tipping the contents of the jar with death-defying courage. Surprisingly, the swill didn't taste bad at all. There was a hint of herbs in it as well as numerous spices, at least ginger and aniseed. For some reason he had to think briefly about the vampire who had given him a little lecture on herbal brandy not long ago. However, for various reasons he didn't like to think about him very much — this guy would better not run into him in the near future, vampire or not.

"But, sir, you _are_ a witcher, aren't you?" the hunter asked confused. The innkeeper looked at him curiously. Now he was wiping around with the dirty rag in a glass.   
_Well, alcohol disinfects_ , Lambert thought. Loudly he said: "Yes, I am. But you know that witchers don't work for free?"  
The hunter and the innkeeper looked at each other slightly nervously.  
"We have heard about this law," Anders murmured.  
„Surprise-me-law or something?" the innkeeper interjected.  
Lambert grunted.  
"Listen, you village idiots," he hissed at them, and the men winced. The drunk at the second table belched. "I have no use for your matted goats or your lice-ridden children. Pay me in coin. Gold if you have, crowns if you don't."  
"I told you right away your wife couldn't get rid of her bastard that way", the drunkard suddenly let himself be heard. He belched again and then got up to leave the tavern.

"Well, we could probably collect in the village," murmured the hunter.  
Lambert got to his feet.  
"What now, have you got a room here? I won't look at the matter before morning anyway. If I find any clues, and if I find out what is haunting you, I will tell you my price. Until then, collect in the village, if you want. If you don't have money tomorrow, you can wait another twenty years for the next witcher."

The hunter bit his lower lip and looked at the innkeeper. The man shrugged his shoulders.   
"You can sleep in my hut, I live there alone," Anders said. "You can even have my bed. And we'll see tomorrow."  
"Fine by me," mumbled Lambert. The prospect of a bed was not too bad. "What about the horse?"  
"Well, we don't have a stable, of course, nobody here can afford a horse," replied the hunter. "You can tie him up outside the house, I'll give him water."

It was a strange contrast to the comparative luxury Lambert had experienced in the imperial palace in the last few days, but that was fine. This was the life he was used to. That didn't mean he necessarily liked it. But at least it was simple and it didn't contain any big surprises — or so he thought.


	2. Howl like a wolf / And a witch will open the door

— 2 —

**Howl like a wolf / And a witch will open the door**

  
Lambert slept with all his belongings near to his body (and some of them under the straw-filled pillow), for he was well aware that both the horse and the swords, and possibly even the few potions he still had on him would be quite tempting for most villagers. However, they were either too clever or too stupid to get hold of him or his things, and so the night passed peacefully. They had an meager breakfast, but since dinner had been cancelled last night, is was quite alright.  
Of course, he hadn't intended to take on a contract. But he could also take the opportunity to fill up some potion ingredients, he thought, if he was already roaming the woods. He didn't think that much would come out of it. Maybe their monster was just a rabid dog, maybe a pack of wolves, and if it really was a monster, certainly not more than a few insectoids.  
However... dogs or wolves would have approached the village eventually. And endregen or similar beasts would have met the villagers in the forest long ago. During breakfast, Lambert tried once more to elicit more information from the hunter.

"So who in your village died?" he asked him.  
Anders stirred his spoon in his porridge and said, "It was the innkeeper's son, barely seventeen years old."  
Lambert frowned.  
"He didn't look particularly affected to me?"  
"He has seven children, so one more or less doesn't make much difference. But since then, the others in the village were afraid to go into the forest. Nobody sends their kids out there to play any more. And the next full moon will be in three days. You have come at the right time."  
"Then you should make sure I get paid at the right time," Lambert replied. "So there was only this one victim?"  
The hunter nodded.   
"Was there anything special about this inkeeper’s son?"  
Anders thought about the question, but he didn’t look him in the eye when he answered.

"He was an ordinary young man. He dreamed of going to Novigrad and becoming a blacksmith. But Novigrad is far away, and the boy couldn't even hammer a nail straight.“  
Lambert put the spoon aside and looked at the hunter urgently.  
"You know the difference between the wounds caused by an animal and those caused by, say, an axe?"  
Anders squinted his eyes.  
"If you suggest that the boy was murdered... no villager would do such a thing. And this was no ordinary animal. Neither a wolf nor a bear does tear a man in half. There were no bite marks, no claw marks. It was a monster, I tell you."  
Lambert kept it to himself that _human monsters_ were capable of many things.  
"I'll take a look," he finally said and rose.

In broad daylight, the hunter had little objection to going into the forest with a witcher. He willingly showed Lambert the place where he had found the body, and then retreated when it became clear that the witcher did not care for his presence. Finally alone, Lambert got down on one knee and examined the dewy grass. It didn't tell him anything, but that's what he'd expected. A month was a long time. 

The surrounding trees and undergrowth seemed untouched. All he could tell was that whatever killed the boy had obviously not come back. However, there was no evidence of animals either, and that seemed unusual to him. It was part of Anders' normal hunting ground, he had at least expected traces of hares or smaller ground game. But there was nothing. And, as he now realized, there were no birds to be heard either. It was strange. 

Lambert took his time and examined the immediate surroundings, but there was not the slightest hint that a monster was at work here. He found Anders sitting on a tree stump in a small clearing, not far away. Instead of going about his day's work, the man rubbed a small whetstone on an arrow that already looked more than sharp. 

"How can you be so sure the boy had no enemies in the village?" he addressed the man.   
The hunter flinched, he hadn't heard the witcher coming.   
"Everyone liked him," he replied evasively.   
"So much so that you would rather make up a story about a monster than even consider the thought that one of you might have killed him?" Lambert said in a chilly voice.   
The hunter got up instantly.   
"I assure you," he replied sharply, "we did not make it up. His father also saw the body. And Paola, the herbalist."  
"An herbalist woman? Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"  
Anders shrugged his shoulders.  
"You didn't ask, did you? I told you that I saw the body, and that it was terribly mauled."

"Where does this herb woman live?" Lambert asked with a sigh. The "contract", which still could be a common murder among villagers and for which he probably wouldn't be paid in the end, began to get on his nerves. It was possible that the hunter was really convinced that a monster had pounced on the son of the innkeeper. But if it had been murder, somebody in the village had to know about it, and that somebody should have stopped Anders from hiring a witcher. Something didn't quite add up here.

  
It turned out that the herbalist did not live in the village — as is so often the case, the villagers were largely dependent on her rudimentary healing arts, but did not like having her around too much. The woman named Paola lived in a lonely hut, a half-hour walk from the village. Anders showed him the way, but did not want to accompany him. 

The woman sat in front of her hut and plucked a chicken while the rest of her little flock of birds clucked agitatedly around her. Her age was hard to estimate, but her long braids showed the first sign of grey. Her eyes gazed watchfully as Lambert approached the hut. 

"A witcher," she said in a rough voice to greet him. "We haven't seen one for..."  
"... twenty years, yes," Lambert replied grumpy.  
"You are here because of Lars?"  
"Because of whom?"  
She blinked in confusion.  
"The butcher's son?"  
"Is he the same one who runs your little pub? Anders hasn't mentioned the name of the dead man," Lambert said.  
"I'm not surprised," muttered the old woman, and threw the chicken grouchily into a pot at her feet.   
"Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the corpse," Lambert replied slightly confused, but also annoyed.  
Paola shuddered. 

"Never seen anything like it before," she said quietly. "Like being torn apart by a wild animal, right through the middle, you know? But no animal does that. There are no wolves around. Or bears, for that matter."  
"Couldn't it have been an axe?"  
She pulled her brows together.  
"An axe? You mean like used for chopping wood?"  
"Yes, goodness gracious, you must be chopping wood out here."   
"Of course we're chopping wood. What do you take us for?" she returned.  
Lambert thought to himself, "For dumb hicks that waste my time," but he didn't say it.

"No, not an axe", Paola continued snappily. "My duties include washing the dead, preparing them for the rite. So I saw Lars very closely, believe me. Someone literally tore him apart. I had to sew him up from top to bottom so we could bury him."  
"I'm not interested in the details," Lambert said in disgust. "Anyway, there's no sign of a monster in the woods."  
The herbalist shrugged.   
"Perhaps you were looking for it at the wrong time?"  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"A nightwraith would hardly show up in the early morning."

Lambert looked at the woman in surprise.  
"How the hell do you come up with a nightwraith?"  
She sighed and put her head back. Looking indistinctly at the sunny sky, she declared, "I have been dreaming about her."  
Lambert rolled his eyes. _This really gets better and better,_ he thought sarcastically.

„So you had a nightmare. And that's why you think the village is haunted by a nightwraith?"  
Paola suddenly jumped up surprisingly fast and pointed a scraggy finger in his direction.  
"You may carry two swords on your back, but are you really a witcher?" she asked with mockery. "Because then you wouldn't have to ask that. What is that around your neck, the sign of the wolf? From what I have heard, there are not many of you left. Perhaps it's because you spit on the old knowledge!"  
"Now listen to me, you old bitch..." Lambert started angrily, but she cut him off.  
"Go back there at midnight. In three days' time, there'll be a full moon, then she'll be strongest, then she'll claim another victim. If you don't find her there by midnight tonight, I'll be damned."

Lambert stared at her.  
"Have you seen her?" he finally asked.  
"I wouldn't go into the forest at night. Not after Lars died there," she replied. Lambert rubbed his chin thoughtfully and remained silent. Paola, meanwhile calm, sat down on her little stool again and without agitation she removed the chicken from the pot, because it hadn't been completely plucked yet.   
Without another word Lambert turned around and walked back to the village. 

He wondered if he should believe that old hag. But when he summed up the facts — as few as there were — her suspicions could not be completely dismissed. A single victim in a whole month. No traces of a monster, but also no signs of animals within a certain radius of where the body had lain. Vesemir had called this burnt soil: The effects of a specter that had been cursed, conjured or otherwise called to unholy life. There could still be another reason for it, but it was a possibility, with the fact that there had been only one victim causing him the most headaches. Lambert wouldn't have called himself an expert on specters — they might be monsters that usually fetched a good price, but they also caused a lot of trouble, so he preferred to avoid such creatures. 

But, well, he was here now, he had talked to the people, and maybe they actually _had_ a monster problem. Lambert might have been many things, but he was certainly not one who didn't face problems. And if only for the sake of professional honour — even if he hadn't chosen his life, the words of the herbalist had upset him more than he wanted to admit to himself.

He briefly thought about whether he should talk to Anders again, or to Lars' father, the innkeeper. On the other hand, both options did not seem very promising to him — Anders did not seem to know anything else, and perhaps the innkeeper really did not care about his son. After all, this was not too rare. But when Lambert returned to the village, he saw the man standing in front of his house, gutting hares on a bloodstained wooden table. Apparently Anders had hunted today after all. So Lambert approached the man. He seemed to take no notice of him until the witcher addressed him.

"Was there something wrong with Lars?"  
The man raised his head and briefly wiped the bloody knife on a rag that was no less bloody — a gesture that made as little sense as anything else in this village.  
"Apart from the fact that he died, sir?"  
" _Before_ he died," Lambert grumbled.  
"That's when he was living, sir."  
Lambert could hear himself screaming inside. He wanted to hit the table in front of him, but it was full of blood and guts. He also resisted the impulse to grab the guy by the shirt — his clothes were just as disgusting.

Instead, he built himself up to full height in front of the man: A tall, dark-haired witcher in black leather armor, with a not unattractive appearance, the facial expression usually a mixture of anger and boredom or general disgust with the world and its inhabitants. He straightened his swords (which were a perfect fit, but it was a gesture of ostentation that rarely missed its impact) and replied, emphasizing every syllable: "Was there perhaps someone who didn't like him. Was there something different about him?"  
The butcher and innkeeper looked at him with narrowed eyes.  
" _Different_? He was not _different_ ," he said in a voice that sounded almost threatening. It made no sense. 

Lambert gave up talking to the villagers. He decided to take another look at this special place in the woods in the evening — and until then he might have had a chance to prepare some potions and oils. Just in case.


	3. Dedicated to / How I'm killing you

— 3—

**Dedicated to / How I'm killing you**   
  


With these preparations, the time until midnight passed quite fast. Some of the potion ingredients were found in the forest, for others he grudgingly sought out the herbalist again, who agreed to sell him some of her supply. She didn't have much — "We're not in Novigrad," she nagged him — but at least her and his own supplies were enough for a specter oil to rub on the sword. 

He tried to remember everything he knew about wraiths. Even though he had often given the impression that he wished his old master to go to hell, he hadn't forgotten a single one of Vesemir's lessons and could still recite many of them by heart. Lambert himself would always have claimed that the reason for this was that these lessons were indeed vital — a witcher who did not know the weaknesses of his opponents was soon a dead witcher. Enough young men had learned this in their first year. And as this was the only life he knew, he was somehow attached to not loosing it too early.

Midnight came, while he stood leaning against a tree, the silver sword already in his hand. He had been pondering for a while about whether he should have made moon dust bombs, but he still wasn't completely convinced that a wraith was at work here — and it was too late for that anyway.

Midnight came and went, and nothing happened, so he almost believed that the matter was really a waste of time and that he should just forget about the whole contract. However, even Lambert knew that to the superstitious population a phrase like "midnight" or "at the darkest hour" meant a lot, but often had no real meaning. Especially not for a specter who rarely even cared about the time of its death when it came to addressing the living. Yet just when he was about to give up, Lambert felt a change in the air that made him arch his back and straighten up. 

The stars illuminated the dark forest just enough to make it visible how the suddenly used-up air seemed to vibrate.   
_Shit_ , Lambert thought. He placed himself in position, the sword tighter in his hand, and watched the swirling of the air until it finally materialized.  
Hell, and it _was a_ nightwraith in all its glory — the half-worn figure of a woman in torn clothes, usually born half out of moonlight and half out of unfinished business. She was looking at him through dead eyes. Only now did he think why the boy had actually been in the forest in the middle of the night. Why hadn't he asked anybody about it? 

The figure hovered around him and he followed her movement. A half turn, and he hurled the sign _Yrden_ at her. Her half-shattered lower jaw snapped down as she emitted a disgusting, unearthly scream — Lambert had aimed very precisely, and the night wraith was caught in his magical trap. She was obviously not very happy about it — if she had been a bruxa, her nerve-shattering roar would have had a sickening effect. So the screaming only rang in his ears when he raised his sword — and not a moment too soon, for now she attacked. Her claws were almost as sharp as his blade, but in any case just as dangerous, and she was damn fast. He could not evade any more, so all he could do was repel the attack of the skeletal hand with his raised broadside. Her claws crunched over the metal, the noise made his teeth vibrate. 

The attack had forced him to take a step back, but now he skilfully rolled under her long arms, jumped back on his legs behind her and struck with force from above. The sword met with no resistance whatsoever and he almost lost his balance. Lambert cursed loudly and took another step backwards while the nightwraith shook her matted hair and began to circle around him again. She kept screeching the whole time — in rage, in frustration, in pain over the sign holding her down, who could tell. 

The sword should have hit her. It should have split her already half shattered jaw. Although he should have known better by then, Lambert took a lunge with his left leg and crossed the specter from the right. He didn't hit her, but this time it was because she evaded him. However, this was a beginner's exercise for a witcher — it only took one more step, a short tightening of the sword and an immediately following direct thrust. The strike should have literally cut out her ghostly innards, if there were any. 

But again his blow did not hit her. That is, he _did_ hit her, but despite the _Yrden_ sign — which should make her vulnerable — it felt as if the blade was cutting through air. The next attack of the wraith was not so easily repelled, and out of the corner of his eye Lambert noticed that the magic trap was weakening. When it collapsed, the specter's power would increase. She was able to create images of herself. If that happened, his chances of somehow gaining the upper hand would rapidly diminish. 

But he had long since realized what his chances were — _extremely crappy,_ Lambert thought. There was a reason he couldn't hurt her. And he'd give those damn villagers hell. If he got out of here alive, he thought fleetingly, because now the trap was history. The nightwraith understood immediately that whatever was holding her back had lost its power. Her scream was bloodcurdling, and her next advance came so quickly that Lambert understood, firstly, why the villagers had claimed that Lars had been torn in half. And secondly, that he had nothing to oppose the specter — except a _Quen_ thrown over him quickly, after he threw himself on the ground. 

First, their claws struck his shield, and Lambert cursed himself because he actually didn't believe that the village was actually haunted by a nightwraith. For increasing the number of potions, but in the end not to choose to protect himself sufficiently. For making _Petris Philter_ , but not consuming it. Because now the night wraith threw itself with its whole body against his shield. It would either burst right away, or he had to give it up anyway, because he couldn't hold the sign much longer.   
_Think, damn it_ , he urged himself. His strength might yet be enough for one more sign. But another shield could only delay the wraith for so long. Another trap was an option, but since he couldn't hurt her, it only brought him one thing: a head start. And that's what he needed now.

The shield was crackling away, the wraith cried out, Lambert performed a backflip. She hadn't counted on that — her bony arm struck in the void. In a flash, Lambert played his last trick, another _Yrden_ , although hastily-made. It hit her just barely, so that she came to a halt at the edge of the magic trap. And then he ran. 


	4. Black heart scarring darker still, yes she'll be there when I'm gone

— 4 —

**Black heart scarring darker still, yes she'll be there when I'm gone**

  
He did not run to the village, he did not want to lead the wraith directly there. But he was not followed, even when the trap must have died long ago. This confirmed the assumption that the creature was bound to this particular place. And that in turn meant — once again — that the villagers must have kept something from him. 

Lambert took a wide turn around the woods and noticed that his path led him directly to the herbalist. It was the middle of the night, but he didn't care. He hammered on the door of her hut, whereupon the chickens in the tiny fenced-in garden woke up, spread their feathers and clucked nervously. 

"Open up, damn it!" he yelled when nothing was stirring in the little house right away. He could have easily kicked the crooked door in, but he held back.   
It was still quiet inside, but now the door was opened provocatively slowly. _The old hag knows exactly who is knocking at the door at this hour_ , Lambert thought. 

"What do you want?" she growled, opening the door just a crack.   
"Answers," he growled back and pushed the door open. The herbalist retreated.  
"At this hour?"  
" _You_ told me about the nightwraith. You must have known I would come."  
"Maybe I just didn't expect you to survive the encounter," she snapped at him.   
"Then your shitty village shouldn't have hired a witcher."  
"Wasn't my idea!"  
"Fine!" he shouted. "But now tell me, is there a reason why the specter is there?“

Paola looked at him hesitantly and turned around, started to put a kettle on the small stove on the wall, then remembered that there was no water in it and remained standing indecisively.   
"I don't know for sure," she said quietly.   
"But you have a hunch."

She shrugged her shoulders.   
"We lost someone in the village six months ago," she finally replied. "A young girl, Hilda."  
"What did she die of?"  
"A broken heart."  
Lambert raised his eyebrows.  
"Was she stabbed or what?" he asked.   
The herbalist gave a sigh.  
"No, _literally_. What do they teach you in your witcher school?"  
He gave her an angry look. _Not another curse_ , he thought. _Why is everything about curses lately_?  
"Well," he said very slowly. "Why did she die? The _real_ reason."  
"Pff, what do you think the reason for a broken heart is? Unrequited love, of course."  
"Yes, that much is clear," he hissed.   
"Oh really?" she returned, but the look in his eyes kept her from hurling any more insults at him.   
"Unrequited love for this boy, Lars?" he went on. "But why is she still here then?"  
Something flashed in the herbalist's eyes, and she looked at him with real interest.   
"Not so dumb after all, the bulky witcher, huh?"  
" _Bulky_? Well I'll be…"

She cut him off.   
"Find out why she's still here. That's exactly the question. Now get out of here, I need my beauty sleep."  
With these words, and with astonishing strength, she pushed the surprised witcher out of the cabin. The door was pushed shut with a cracking sound and Lambert stood brooding in the pale light of the not yet completely full moon.  
But in three days it _would_ be full moon. And then anything could happen.

Strangely enough, some of his anger had faded as he approached the village. It would soon dawn, but for now everything lay still. The village was surrounded by a light fog that announced the morning, and it appeared slightly unreal in it. Lambert entered the hunter's house quietly — there was no point in asking him and possibly other villagers in the middle of the night about the wraith. As if Anders had been waiting for him, he was not lying in his bed, but on the floor in front of the modest straw mattress. Lambert threw himself on it without any fuss and waited for the morning, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling.

The morning came, the hunter stirred, noticed the witcher in his bed and jumped on his feet in fright.   
"Aha", Lambert remarked suspiciously calm. "I guess you either didn't expect me to come back, did you?"  
"I... yes, of course", stammered the hunter. "I kept the bed free for you, didn't I?" he muttered.  
"Yes, indeed," Lambert replied, swinging himself from the rickety bedstead. 

Anders had got up and started rattling around with his cooking utensils.   
"Wait," said Lambert, and something in his voice made the hunter turn around. But he did not look at him.  
"What happened here?" Lambert asked. "A nightwraith killed the boy, and only the herbalist has the courage to tell me about it. But you all must have known when the boy died. You didn't tell me about the girl, Hilda was her name, I think. Why not?“  
"I didn't think it was important... She was just a silly young girl who had fallen in love," the hunter explained heatedly.   
Lambert frowned.  
"Were you in love with her, too?"  
Anders laughed strangely.   
"Me? No, certainly not."  
There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, the witcher could not help noticing.  
"But _she_ was in love with you?"  
"Oh, nonsense", Anders hissed, and angrily knocked over a bowl that was on a small table under the window. Lambert was irritated by this unexpected display of confusing emotions, but also by the sudden, slight vibration of his wolf medallion.

He raised his hands in appeasement — he had no idea what was going on, but the strange change of mood had made the air quite thick.   
"All right. The girl was in love with Lars, Lars did not return the feelings. Correct so far?"  
The hunter nodded.   
"But Lars is dead. That doesn't explain why the specter is still there."  
"I know nothing about that."  
"I realize that," mumbled Lambert. "Come with me. We're going to see Lars’ father.“  
"Now? Why?"  
Lambert stood up, and without further ado he pushed the hunter out of the room and out of the house.   
"Very simple — if you don't tell me, he will. Or anyone else in this stupid village."  
But, as Lambert soon discovered, there was no one to be seen in the village. He again had the feeling he could detect movement out of the corner of his eye — something like figures rushing past windows, doors closed hastily, curious glances. But whenever he tried to catch one of the villagers watching him in secret, he had no success.

He shook off the thought and literally forced Anders forward to the house of the butcher and pub owner. The man just stood there, undecided what to do. Probably he had seen them coming, Lambert thought, but was simply too slow in thinking to come up with a plan. He also wondered where the six other children and the man's wife were. There didn't seem to be enough room for them in the house. But if he didn't care about them as much as he did about Lars, it was probably better if they weren't here.

In any case, he did not seem surprised that the witcher and the hunter entered his house quite informally.   
"So, now tell me what was really going on with Lars," Lambert demanded to know. "The fair Hilda turned into an specter and killed him, probably because he was not in love with her. So who was he in love with?“  
"I know nothing about that," the man replied evasively.  
"You see, I don't believe that."  
Lambert came closer and built himself up in front of the guy. He was taller and wider than Lambert, but he was the one with the two swords — and also the only one who could possibly solve their problem.

"There is a nightwraith near the village. It will be strongest during the full moon. And then it may no longer be confined to its little patch of forest. That also depends on who dear Hilda is angry with. So you'd better tell me now, because I have a strong feeling that you both know more than you're telling me."

The other men looked at each other briefly, but kept silent.  
Lambert looked at them attentively, but not a muscle was stirring in their faces. He shrugged.  
"Well, in that case, all I can say is good luck, maybe the specter really is just taking up with that other spurned lover. But maybe the whole village will have to go down in flames. I'm sure when the next witcher comes along in 20 years, he'll make an entry in his little book of silly villagers."

His voice was dripping with sarcasm that even these village idiots could not miss. And with that he turned around and faced the door.  
"Wait," Anders quickly said.  
The innkeeper made a sound between sighs and grunts.  
"He is right after all," the hunter murmured.  
"But we have sworn ..." began the other man.  
"Some _swears_ are exactly the problem here," Lambert interjected.

"All right. We'll tell you what we know."


	5. Pursuit of truth no matter where it lies

— 5 —

**Pursuit of truth no matter where it lies**

  
"It is true that Hilda was in love with Lars," the hunter finally explained. "But Lars felt nothing for her."  
"So he had someone else. Who was it?"  
Again the men were silent. The innkeeper cleared his throat, Anders looked out the window. Lambert sighed.  
"It was no girl from the village," the hunter finally said reluctantly.  
"All right, so she was from another village, what... Oh."  
After watching the men attentively, their little gestures, their refusal to look him in the eye, he finally understood.  
"It wasn't a girl?

The innkeeper raised one hand and pointed to the hunter.  
"No, it was him."  
Lambert looked at them both in astonishment.  
"You said Lars was only seventeen."  
"He was more mature than others in the village," Anders defended himself.  
"Was it consensual?"  
Anders looked at him angrily. Lambert shrugged.  
"Then why did the girl become a vengeful spirit?"  
"Because she couldn't have him, that's why. I didn't take him from her. She was just a spoiled brat who didn't get what she wanted."

"Unrequited love is a pretty strong motive," Lambert said thoughtfully. "But why the hell didn't you tell me all this before?"  
"Because nobody in the village knew about it. About Anders and Lars,“ the boorish innkeeper explained. "Except the herbalist, Paola. And that was that. We don't live in a big city here, you know."  
Lambert understood that. Far away from civilization the thought of reproduction outweighed the wishes and needs of many young people, no matter in which direction they developed.  
"But you had no objection?"  
"I have seven children", the man replied, as if that would explain anything. And maybe it did.

"What did Hilda die of?" Lambert asked. "And don't give me that broken heart crap."  
"It was a fever," Anders replied. "Just an ordinary fever. But Paola claimed she only got sick because Lars did not return her love."  
"And then Hilda died, and the stupid old hag told you it was because of a broken heart," Lambert concluded. "How did she even know about you and the boy?"  
"She ran into Lars and me in the woods," mumbled Anders.  
"In the exact place where he died later?" Lambert followed up.  
The hunter nodded.   
"Fine," Lambert said. "I'll tell you one thing, maybe there's a way to get rid of the specter. But it won't be easy. And therefore not cheap."  
Lars' father puffed noisily.  
"You have already seen that we are not a rich village."

"But you have been thinking about hiring a witcher for a while. Maybe you would have gotten away with your law of surprise thing somehow, but a long time ago there was a witcher here once. And you remembered that he wanted coin. So you certainly didn't take too many risks. Which leads me to believe you do have money.“

"We actually collected," the innkeeper muttered. He looked at the hunter expectantly.  
"All right," said Anders and reached into a pocket of his clothes. He pulled out a small leather pouch and handed it to Lambert.   
The pouch was surprisingly heavy in the witcher's hand. He opened the small strap that sealed the leather, and looked at the men in astonishment.  
"Where did you get the gold?"   
He took out a coin and looked at it, scrutinizing it in the light that fell through the window. The coin was old, very old, presumably, and the pouch was full of it.

"That need not be your concern," replied the hunter indiscriminately. "Let's just say it was once meant for someone else who could not accept it. That is why you are to receive it in advance. Provided you are honest and really want to help us."  
Lambert settled for this feeble explanation and nodded.  
"I think I can help you. But first I must speak to the herbalist again."

  
The woman sat in front of her hut just like the day before. This time she was peeling peas.  
"We could have saved ourselves a lot of time if you had told me everything yesterday," Lambert said to her, surprisingly calmly.  
"The course of events must be preserved," she said cryptically. "Are you convinced that you can defeat the nightwraith?"  
"Perhaps," he responded. "Answer me this one more thing. Did you convince not only the villagers, but the girl as well, that she would die of a broken heart?"  
The woman seemed to turn pale. She did not look at him.  
"It was not meant for her ears," she replied.   
"Well, she heard it. It is partly your fault that Hilda became a wraith."  
"And I live with that guilt. I have for a long time," she replied heatedly. "Tell me what you need to make the wraith go away."

"I think you know what it takes," he replied. "Your words triggered a curse that she probably cast in her last clear moment. Even if you didn’t tell her that Anders and Lars were a couple, the only thing she knows is that there is unfinished business. So you must confront her and make her resolve the curse. Only then will she release the curse from the living and disappear forever."  
"Oh, it's that easy?" The herbalist's words were mocking, but there was fear in her eyes. 

"If it were simple, you would have done it long ago," he returned unmoved. "We must perform a ritual. We'll need candles, some incense. If possible, something that belonged to her, to bind her more firmly. We must burn it to break the bond."  
"I have her headband," the woman said quietly. Lambert didn't even ask why she had kept it — the answer was clear: because she might not have known, but she was afraid that her words might have triggered something. That was also the reason why she had not told anyone else in the village that she had seen Anders and Lars. Unrequited love, Lambert thought. How many meanings those words had.

"I have all these things," she said reluctantly.   
Lambert nodded.   
"Then we'll do it tonight."


	6. Pure black, looking clear / My work is done soon here

— 6 —

**Pure black, looking clear / My work is done soon here**

  
The day went by quickly with all the preparations they had to make. This time Lambert did not fail to equip himself with moon dust bombs and more potions — and, for that matter, to use them shortly before midnight. He would regret the amount of different potions he had taken tomorrow if he didn't succeed in mitigating the toxic effect in time. But for now he preferred to be protected in case something went wrong. 

They had lit candles in the small woodlands, they had ritually set them up in a circle, had started a fire and burned the incense. Then it was time to throw the headband of the unfortunate Hilda into the fire. Lambert knew exactly the words he had to speak, even if he had never had to perform this particular ritual in his entire life as a witcher. And it turned out that all the persistent memorizing in his childhood paid off this time as well: Shortly after midnight, the nightwraith appeared, caused both by the irresistible urge to force her out night after night and by the ritual that bound her at least for a short time and prevented her from attacking them directly.

The herb woman next to Lambert did not flinch when she saw the specter, but she stiffened. If she had really seen her in a dream, Lambert thought she was surprisingly well in control of herself — such a sight was something a human usually did not cope with well.   
Forced by both the ritual and the presence of the woman, who was at least partly responsible for her curse, the nightwraith's form changed rapidly. 

The destroyed, decayed visage became the ghostly, shining face of a young woman, a little older than the boy she had killed. Her figure gained flesh, though it remained unreal and transparent and was surrounded by an eerie glow. Her rotting clothes became a simple but clean linen garment.

She emerged in this form and looked around in confusion.  
"Who are you?" she said, and her voice sounded as if from a faraway depth. Lambert looked at Paola with a demanding look. She stepped forward hesitantly and fixed her eyes on the spirit.  
"I have summoned you. I have wronged you", she said, following exactly the words Lambert had given her.   
The woman lifted a candle she was holding in her hand and stroked the flame with some incense.   
"I have summoned you. I command you to leave this world and move on."  
The spirit moved slightly towards the woman.  
"I recognize you."  
Paola took a step backwards. Lambert quickly stretched out an arm — she was not supposed to step out of the circle.  
"But you have not wronged me," Hilda's spirit continued. "It was a boy. A young man who did not love me. Tell me, why did he not he love me?"

"Don't answer," Lambert whispered. "The ritual. You must speak the words in the right order!"  
"And who is this?"   
The spirit turned and looked at Lambert.   
"I've seen one of those before," she said quietly.  
 _Oh really_ , Lambert thought, _twenty years ago_? But that was nonsense. She'd only been dead half a year. 

The herbalist lost her nerve.  
"He loved another man!" she cried. "It wasn't my fault! It was his own fault, he could have been yours!"  
Lambert swore.  
"You damned lunatic!"  
He had his hand on his sword when the air vibrated. The candles flickered briefly, then they extinguished. An unholy wind blew over the fire, and the fire went out as well. With a disgusting scream, the spirit became a nightwraith again. They had performed the ritual for nothing.

The herb woman turned on her heel and ran away. That is, she tried to run — but she did not get far. The specter did not care who was to blame for her misfortune. _Don't run, never run_ , Lambert thought. Even Dandelion had known that. He shouted to the specter, "Come here, you ugly bastard!" But the nightwraith didn't notice him — not yet. She had already chosen her destination. And as quickly as Lambert drew his sword and before he could even cast his _Yrden_ sign, the terrible ghostly figure had already caught the herb woman with her claw-like fingers. She cut her body like a knife cutting butter.

This is what they had meant when he said that the boy had been "torn from top to bottom". Lambert grimly cast the sign. The trap hit the nightwraith in the middle of the movement, wrapped itself around her and caused her pain. She howled. 

The witcher wasted no time. He threw a bomb at her to prevent her from using the moonlight to blind him with additional shapes. But when he attacked her, he quickly had to realize that she still seemed to be as invulnerable as the night before.  
 _Bloody hell,_ Lambert thought. _What now?_

The answer came from an unexpected source. And it was obvious, albeit completely insane. For of course there was another way to lift the curse, ritual or no ritual. And Anders, the hunter, knew about it. How, was a mystery to Lambert. But he didn't care, because all the witcher's quickness didn't help him prevent it.

Anders jumped out of the bushes and stumbled towards the nightwraith.   
"Here I am!" he shouted. "Take your revenge if you must, since you already took Lars from me!"  
It was a ridiculous little speech, but it didn't miss its mark. The specter seemed to have an instinctive grasp of who she was dealing with. And even if Hilda hadn't known in her lifetime why she couldn't have had Lars, her unholy spirit now knew. Angrily she threw herself against the invisible walls of her prison, and the hunter seemed to understand that from there she could not harm him. For a moment he still stood, perhaps indecisively, but maybe only to gather his last courage.

When Lambert realized what the man was about to do, it was too late for his „STOP!" Anders had voluntarily stepped into the sign. As if on cue, the magic trap collapsed. And Anders suffered the same fate as the herb woman: a single, swift stroke with the claws brought him to a quick end after all.

_What a bloody madness_ , Lambert thought. _But let's see if your sacrifice was worth it_.   
Because now the last person involved in this little relationship drama was dead. Lambert threw another moon dust bomb — and hit precisely as always. Silver splinters exploded on the wraith, making her scream again and preventing her transformation. Then, with extreme concentration, once again _Yrden_. And after that a swift, swirling thrust. _Don't give her time_ , he thought. _Don't let her come near at all_.

And he saw to that. The nightwraith was fast, but moon dust and Yrden had weakened her, temporarily disorienting her. Lambert was fast, too, and he was extremely focused and precise, pumped up by his potions and adrenaline, and his blow hit her right in the ghostly chest, right in the bony ribs. And he hit, he really hit her this time. Lambert could not deny that he had had one last hint of doubt. But also this time it turned out that Vesemir — the gods rest his soul — had been right. It was exactly as he had preached to the witchers: If everyone involved in the curse dies, the curse dies. And sometimes a wraith can only be defeated then.

It wasn't an easy fight after all. The specter was tough, biting (in the truest sense of the word) and fast. But Lambert could be all of those things, too (even if he refrained from gnashing his teeth into the rotting flesh). He may have been the youngest of the few wolf brothers still alive, but he was certainly no less experienced. And so he beat the wraith down, fought her off, pushed forward again and repeated all this — for minutes, for hours, it was hard to tell. 

And at some point he struck for the last time, heard her scream for the last time, dodged her nimble claws one last time. Then the silver sword was her end. It cut through flesh that had not lived for a long time, and with one last horrible cry, the figure crumbled in a cloud of unnaturally colored smoke. 

Panting, Lambert remained standing in front of the remnants — just a pile of elemental dust, which he spread around in an almost regretful gesture with his boots. Then, from a pouch attached to his belt, he pulled out a carefully wrapped vial — white honey to counteract the effect of his poisoning. He briefly thought of going back to the village, but decided against it. There was time for that later. He uncorked the vial and knocked the contents down without hesitation. The effect was immediate, and an unreal dizziness seized him and made him look for a hold on a tree. Then he collapsed.


	7. And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through

— 7 —

**And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through**

  
When he came to, it was bright morning. The dewy grass felt uncomfortable, but the change in the small piece of forest was immediately noticeable: he heard birds far above him, and not far away there was a rustling in the undergrowth. Lambert opened his eyes — and saw the black horse's head directly above him. It looked at him as if it had just considered nudging him with its wet nose. Lambert jumped up and patted the beautiful animal's neck.  
"Good boy," he grumbled. "What are you doing here, eh?"  
 _Great, now I'm talking to a horse, like Geralt_ , he thought.

For some reason this thought awakened the urge in him to get out of here as quickly as possible. The villagers had already paid him, and he had no great desire to see any of them again. He looked around: The change was not only audible, it was visible. The forest seemed brighter now. No, he thought, actually more normal. The way it should be. In the village, they'd soon notice. And he just wanted to leave, he had no interest in explaining why the village had now lost its herb woman and hunter as well. In fact, clients usually did not react positively to such unforeseen losses. And they had paid him in advance. He didn't want to make them feel they had to regret it.

So he led the horse out of the dense undergrowth and with somnambulistic certainty, he found the next paved road. He mounted and took a last look back, to where the village must be. Nothing could be seen from here, not even smoke from the hearth fires, although the morning was still chilly. Then he turned forward, for the path had taught him that a look back was seldom worthwhile.

It took him another three days before he reached a familiar house in a — by now — familiar city. As usual, the sorceress sat in front of a mirror and combed her hair as he entered. She seemed to spend whole days doing that.

Keira didn't turn around, but her voice lacked some of the usual taunt when she addressed him.  
"There you are, sweetheart. I've heard some amazing stories, the rumor mill is just bubbling over."  
"Oh yeah?" he replied casually, taking off his gloves and hurling them into a corner. "What's the rumor?"   
Now she turned to him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.  
"Well, depending on who you believe, the White Wolf is dead, and then he isn't, Ciri has killed a vampire — which I think is impossible — and a certain dark-haired witcher with no manners whatsoever saved the Emperor of Nilfgaard. I find this part particularly interesting, you must tell me all about it. But say, Geralt isn't actually dead, is he?"  
"No, saved him too," he answered dryly and dropped himself on the bed.

The sorceress looked at him disapprovingly.  
"Oh I beg you, this dusty armour on the sheets..."  
Then she looked at him carefully.  
"You have been traveling for some time. What have you been doing? Where have you been?"  
Lambert sighed.  
"A small village called Friedshain. I took a contract."  
Keira was taken aback for a moment, then she laughed.   
"Amusing, my dear, amusing. Have you been hanging around any brothels? You know that doesn't bother me much..."  
"What? No. I really went to that village. They had a problem with a nightwraith there.“  
"Lambert," Keira said, narrowing her eyes. "Are you pulling my leg?"

He sat up, wondering at her tone.   
"Bollocks. They paid in gold, see for yourself."  
He pulled out the pouch and threw it at her, and she caught it with elegance. Suspiciously, she opened the thin leather strap and took out a coin.  
"Quite remarkable," she murmured. 

"That they'd managed to collect gold in that little shit village? Yeah, I wondered about that too."  
Keira shook her head.  
"Lambert, Lambert. Do you know how old this gold is?"  
"What do I care," he grumbled. "I suppose it is old, yes. They said they'd had it for a while, it was meant for someone else or something like that.“  
"You really don't know, do you?" Keira laughed tingly. "That gold was meant for a witcher once."  
He looked at her suspiciously.

"How would you know something like that? The village people said the last witcher passed through there 20 years ago."  
"Twenty years?"   
She laughed again.  
"Oh my poor Lambert. They never told you scary stories when you were little, did they? It's surprising, since it's about a witcher."  
"What story?" he asked, slowly getting annoyed by her fuss.

"The story of the cursed village of Friedshain and the witcher who... You said there was a nightwraith?"  
She pursed her lips as he nodded.   
"At least that's a valid explanation for the curse," she said. 

"Enlighten me," he growled.  
"Very well, then. It is said that two hundred years ago a witcher came through the village and was told that a monster had killed a young boy. This story is told in several variations — sometimes the monster remains vague, sometimes it is only a bear, but mostly some horrible creature with which one can frighten small children. In any case, the monster is cursed and the witcher creates all sorts of mumbo-jumbo to solve the curse. But he makes a mistake, something goes wrong, and the monster destroys the whole village and kills the witcher. It really isn't the best bedtime story, I must admit."

She noticed his look and said in surprise, "But it really is just a story. Lambert? You look like you've seen a ghost."  
 _You don't say_ , Lambert thought. _But not just one._


End file.
